Either way, it mattered not, because inside was the menacing silence that Oliver had been dreading. It was an open door to his dark thoughts, which crept stealthily into his head and dug a deep hole there. He saw his crewman going overboard and flailing in the waves. He threw a life preserver, but it was tossed about in the wind, utterly useless. The storm roared like a beast. The deck was slippery, and the spray was as cold as ice on his flesh. He grabbed at the rail ...
Oliver heard the sudden clang of a ship’s bell. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead.Stop thinking. Look around you, dammit.
His eyes flew open. He was in a bedroom. It was quiet. Warm and dry.
As his heart rate began to slow, he ran a finger over the tender lump on his skull that had not yet diminished in size. At least he was no longer nauseated. He felt rested, along with a noticeable improvement in his cognitive abilities.
He sat up in bed. With pupils well adjusted to the gloom, he tossed the covers aside, swung his feet to the floor, and stood up—risingcarefully in case the dizziness returned.Bloody hell.Every muscle in his body ached.
He took a moment to gain confidence in his sense of balance before he padded stiffly to the window and looked out at the night sky. A rose pink light over the rooftops of Main Station glowed on the horizon. It was the light of a new dawn.
He returned to the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and asked God why he’d been spared. It was the young crewman who should have been saved.
But who was Oliver to question the decisions of God? Because Oliver certainly hadn’t made the best decisions in his own life.
A short while later, Oliver walked out of the house and descended the porch steps to the yard. The salty pang of the sea filled his nostrils. Mixed with a plethora of other unfamiliar fragrances, it created an extravagant perfume. He stopped to inhale deeply and listen to the roar of the waves beyond the dunes.
Clearly, the ocean was still angry after the storm.
Turning toward the thunder of the breakers, he slid his hands into his pockets and strode across the yard, his boots grinding strangely on the sand. The grains sang like crystal, like nothing he’d ever experienced, and fleetingly he wondered if he’d passed away during the night and was now walking on a different plane or heavenly dimension.
It was a ridiculous thought, he knew, but nothing seemed normal that morning. He’d slept like the dead after narrowly skirting death, and he felt an unsettling urge to glance over his shoulder to check for the grim reaper—to make sure he wasn’t following, eager to launch a second attempt.
Eventually, Oliver reached the top of a high dune. He stopped and gazed down at the beach below and the raging ocean beyond. The skywas growing brighter. His eyes scanned the incoming waves, searching for a body washed ashore, but saw nothing.
With a raw mix of sadness, shame, and despair, he looked toward his ship, wrecked off the western tip of the island. She lay on her side while the constant cruel whip of the waves rained down on her.
Suddenly in need of a closer look, Oliver skidded down the steep slope of the dune to the beach and walked briskly. Perhaps she was not yet done for. Perhaps her hull had not been damaged. Perhaps it might still be possible to float her when the tide came in ...
Suddenly, his desperate thoughts were wrenched away from theBelvedere. Thunderous galloping hoofbeats on the beach reached his ears. With a hot rush of doom in his blood, he turned, but it was not the grim reaper, here to collect another soul. It was Emma, the superintendent’s daughter.
For some inexplicable reason, Oliver was embarrassed to be out on the beach at dawn, marching toward his half-sunken ship. What could he possibly do about the situation?
She slowed her horse to a trot, then a walk, and drew up beside him. He stopped and noticed the color of her long hair matched her chestnut mare almost exactly.
She regarded Oliver jauntily. “Good morning, Captain. You must be feeling better.”
Her cheeks were flushed from exertion and the chill of the cool morning air, and he found himself judging her as a woman immensely confident for one so young. Or perhaps it was because of her position, high in the saddle, looking down at him.
“Somewhat better,” he replied dully.
The mare blew a forceful breath from flaring nostrils and tossed its head. Emma patted the horse on the neck, and when Oliver resumed his trek toward the West Spit, she dismounted. Within seconds, she caught up with him. “May I walk with you?”
“Of course,” he replied, though clearly she’d already taken it as a given.
Emma led her horse behind her, and they fell into a matched pace.
“It was nice to wake up to a clear sky,” she said, and Oliver wondered if she’d ever known a truly dark day in her entire young life. “But that’s the thing about storms, isn’t it? They always blow over.”
“Do they?” he replied pessimistically, feeling her gaze lingering on his profile as he walked.
“Yes, but I’m just talking about the weather,” she said.
He stopped and faced her. “I suppose I wasn’t.”
She stopped as well. “I gathered that.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, then started walking again at a slower pace, a significant distance from the waves that crashed and rolled, foaming onto the beach.
